Dionysus Triumphant
by Fireflyillumi
Summary: Grantaire is determined to prove his worth. He is triumphant. (Yeah, I'm bad at summaries. It's better than it sounds.)


Grantaire trudged into the Musain an hour early, instead of an hour late like usual. None of the others had arrived yet, so Grantaire headed towards the wine, thinking it better company than silence. He reached for a bottle, but then he stopped himself as a voice echoed in his mind. It was the voice of Enjolras, calling him a winecask. Asking if he was good for anything other than taking up space, if he could do anything worth more than pity. Grantaire was used to hearing such things from Enjolras, but there was something in the blonde's voice the night before that had especially stung. Desperate to prove he was worth more than pity, to earn some respect from his Apollo, Grantaire had decided he would show Enjolras, and all the Amis, what he could do when he tried.

He settled himself at a table and sat, waiting for his friends. The minutes ticked by like hours, the warm numbness that came with the wine calling his name. Needing something to keep his hands away from the bottles, he pulled his paints and a small canvas from his bag. He propped the canvas against his bag, spreading the paints in front of it. He poised his brush above the liquid rainbow, waiting for inspiration to strike like a wildcat. But nothing came. He sat like that, his mind empty. When the Amis came in some time later, he hadn't moved. He didn't even look up when one of them grabbed a bottle of absinthe. Quiet chatter filled the room, not reaching Grantaire's ears. Suddenly, the voices fell silent.

Enjolras, standing on an empty table, began his speech. It started out hushed, like the fearful people were speaking through him. His voice rose steadily into a tumultuous symphony of hope and determination, every word inspiring the winds of change to blow. Grantaire, unable to ignore the passionate blonde, had finally looked up from his paints. All of the Amis, himself included, were enraptured by the marblesque blonde. Grantaire's brush descended into the smooth pigments, and he began to paint.

His brush strokes flew with Enjolras' voice, spreading paint across the canvas as his Apollo spread words of freedom across the cafe. As Enjolras finished his speech, Grantaire stood and stepped back from the canvas. Courfeyrac, curious, came to see the product of Grantaire's toiling. He gasped, drawing the attention of the other Amis. Soon, they were all gathered around Grantaire's masterpiece, staring in awe. Enjolras, still across the cafe, showed no interest. Grantaire strode across the room, stopping beside him.

"I have been sober all day, and I have accomplished something more than taking up space, something that deserves more than your pity," Enjolras looked at Grantaire and, seeing Grantaire's desire for his approval, stood and crossed the room. The Amis backed away from the canvas to give their leader a clear view of it.

The background was a city street, blocked by a makeshift yet magnificent barricade. It looked like the Rue de la Chanverrerie, where the Amis was to build their barricade. In front of the barricade was a man... or a god, no one could decide which. He was tall and thin with a delicate, almost feminine frame. His pale body was draped only in a red cloth, falling over his form like a waterfall. His right arm was straight up, and he held a pistol triumphantly in his hand. His head was turned towards the heavens, his blue eyes shining. Pink lips were drawn up in a small smile, dimples visible. His blonde hair shimmered past his shoulders, almost falling out of its ribbon. At his feet was a cloth poppy colored red, white, and blue. Behind the scene was a setting sun, peeking through the cracks in the barricade and framing the perfect being. His skin glowed and his hair was haloed in the amber and gold of the sunset.

Enjolras was silent, for once at a loss for words. Grantaire thought for a moment, then said quietly, "I shall call it 'Apollo Triumphant'," Then he leaned to Enjolras' ear. "I sincerely hope you are," The sober drunkard left the Musain, leaving his triumph behind.


End file.
